A Knight Among Men
by I have a boat
Summary: Full Summary Inside- For the first time in his life, he felt truly grateful for the rain and the isolation God gave him for her ceremony
1. Chapter 1

___Summary:_

_Sherlock Holmes is a young, middle income father with a beautiful child, a gorgeous wife, and a steady career. However, the eccentric consulting detective has a dark past that is catching up with him faster then even his superior mind can comprehend. With his love gone, can the Detective manage his newest, darkest case and his super intelligent daughter?  
_

_My Daddy once told me a story of a knight who gave up everything for everyone he ever loved._

For the first time in his life, he felt truly grateful for the rain and the mental isolation God gave him for her ceremony. The dammed rain hid the cascade of emptiness that poured like hot fire down his sharp cheekbones. His little girl wouldn't have to see his tears, not here where he had to be strong. He had never seen his father cry, so why should Molly have to see hers? Weakness was shown in tears, and he was not weak. No one had seen him cry since he was a young boy, including Irene. She would not see them now; even if she was being left for the worms in that god forsaken hole. No… It was all for the better if she nor Molly saw them.

'Damn my eyes,' He thought, feeling more tears slide like liquid diamonds out of his lids and into the cold of the afternoon.

_The man was a knight in shining armor. He rode around on the back of a big black hound that scared away anybody who was evil and saved all of the people who were good._

She was crying, too; hot tears spilling onto the grey grass ground that was now her mommy's home. 'That's not good' He thought numbly to himself and he knelt down to kiss away her tears that mixed with cold rain on her rosy cheeks, 'Molly looks so much more like her mother when she smiles. Shouldn't she be doing that? Smiling? Isn't that kinder to Irene?'

Molly's blue eyes were puffy and red as she wiped away another tear with the back of her sleeve. The child was wearing her birthday black peacoat her mother had spent six pounds on, at the time, too much. It was several sizes too big, much the grey pearl bracelets and necklace that she wore, but the toddler hadn't cared about that. No. What Molly cared about most was the fact that her mommy had gotten that peacoat for her… and that she would never see or hug or kiss her mommy anymore.

_A few people said that he was angel, but most said that he was a devil. My daddy would say that the knight in shining armor would only reply that he was on the side of angels, but wasn't one of them._

Through his clouded thoughts, he felt himself gently grasp his daughter's hand in his own gloved ones. Through the black leather, her hand was warm. Her soft palm fit very naturally inside of his own long, graceful hand. Like a two puzzle pieces, or a key in a lock. He felt himself involuntarily squeeze Molly's firm, but miniscule hand in weak comfort. It wasn't much, he knew, but it was better than nothing.

Molly gripped her father's fore and middle fingers like a drowning man at sea. She didn't want this. Molly didn't want the feeling of her daddy's hand, or the clad in black Father mechanically saying a blessing that no one was listening to, or the strange men in overalls with shovels lowering her mommy's casket into the hole. All Molly wanted her mommy. Molly wanted to wrap her pudgy little arms around her mother's skirt and be enveloped in the security of her mother's arms and sleep in the warmth of her bosom. She wanted just one more kiss, one more smile, one more hug from her mother before she said goodbye. That was all that Molly wanted.

The pair couldn't watch as the coffin was lowered into the abysmal hole. Both cringed at the thud it made as it hit the mud. It was a sick sound, like a dead body hitting the earth. Molly wept harder as the dirt scoop by scoop piled onto her mother. He knelt onto the grass and mud, allowing the girl to burrow her head into the crook of her father's neck. She thankfully accepted being pulled into a strong hug that she had known all of her life. Her father smelled of wet trench coat and scarf and raisin and smoky pine.

Through the blur of the rain and the toffee color of Molly's soft hair, He watched the men bury the woman he loved and the vows he spoke with her. He watched his daughter and a hand that no longer felt like his throw dirt on her. He watched his soul die away as the Father crossed the grave and spoke sonorous voice, "ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

_One day, a dragon that the knight couldn't defeat came and took away everything that the knight loved._

"You are now welcome to say some words to your mother, child, before she is truly laid to rest." The Father said solemnly once his prayers and sermon had concluded. Both father and daughter were crying now. The father cried silent tears that yearned to wail and sob like the daughter.

He sighed shakily, grasping desperately to hold his composure. "Molly… do you want to say anything to mommy?"

Molly pulled away from the familiar scent to meet her father's mournful gaze. His eyes were a light blue color, like that of spring clouds or a winter sky, usually dancing with wit and life. But today, as she studied them through the rain under the one, decaying tree that stood in the graveyard, his eyes were glazed over in red sadness that only she shared with him.

Molly kissed her father's forehead lightly, like her mother did to her. "Can you pick me up, Daddy?"

Molly was almost weightless as she rose to his eye level and straddled herself comfortably on his hip.

"Molly," He said, his voice as quiet and deep as the distant thunder, "what do you want to say to Mommy before she has to go?"

'Oh, God please. Please don't let me cry anymore. Don't let Molly see me like this… Bring her back. Bring back Irene, for god's sake.' He turned his head to the sky, allowing his salty tears to glide down his sharp cheek bones and fall into the nest that was his navy blue scarf.

Molly sniffed as she began bravely, "mommy, I want to tie my message to a balloon so you can see it coming from up in heaven." He heard his little girl's voice waver as she persevered through raw vocal cords and weepy eyes, "I'll write you every day so that way you won't miss anything while you're gone. I think I'll tie a piece of candy on the end of it. I know you couldn't have candy because you was too sick. But NOW, in heaven, you CAN!"

Suddenly, the little girl felt her dam of composure split as wracking sobs shook her to the core. Molly immediately returned to her father for the comfort she so desperately needed. Her father was burning on the inside as he comfortingly stroked her sopping wet hair, whispering words that came naturally since parenthood.

"Shh, love. Shh… Daddy's here. Daddy loves you. Shh… it'll be alright, my darling…" her father whispered as the priest glided back to the church where a meeting for the sinful was about to take place. But that didn't matter to the two who continued to stand in the cemetery. The man wanted his life back, and so did the little girl who cried into his scarf.

'she saw me cry, godammit. She saw me cry.' He thought and silent tears streamed faster down his face, provoking more whispered words of love.

_So the dragon made a deal with the knight. If the knight went away and never returned to the land, the dragon would let everyone he loved go._

How long he stood at Irene's grave, he could not say. He wanted to move. He wanted to leave this place with Molly and Irene and never look back. He wanted to wake up from this horrible, horrible nightmare. But the elegant words on his wife's tombstone mocked his pain, and his grief kept his feet docked to the ground. Molly's usually angelic face was buried deeply into the crook of his neck, her hot tears and the icy rain showering him in reminders of his grief and the emptiness that was creeping inside.

_Irene Adler. Born1897. Died 1940 September 3__rd__ of Natural Causes. "Somebody loves you."_

Those were her last words to him; and he would never forget those cruel them or the sunken face that wheezed them out of drowning lungs.

"She loved you very much, Molly." He whispered into his daughter's ear after some time. Molly had stopped sobbing violently for the moment, but the tears stilled rolled at a constant pace down her face.

He sighed as he lightly kissed Molly on her pudgy, tear stained cheek. Night was almost upon them, and he had to take her home to Baker Street. It was getting darker and North London was not the place to be in the dead of night.

He shifted his grip on Molly as he whispered, "Let's say goodbye to Mommy, Molly. We have to go home."

Molly shook her head furiously in protest, causing raindrops that had landed on the scarf to fly every which way. "I don't want to. Mommy will be here all night alone. She'll get lonely."

"Molly, mommy is with Grandfather and Grandmother right now. She won't be lonely." Well, it wasn't a complete lie. Both his parents were dead.

"No, I want to stay with Mommy."

He felt himself becoming irritable, but he had to be patient with her tears. "Molly, say goodbye." He cooed, feeling his knees creak into motion as he began carrying the four year old in his arms to the exit of the yard.

Molly paused for a minute, thinking about what her Daddy had said. Slowly, she lifted her tired head to face the glistening grave that marked the spot where her mother was. The sight was truly pitiful to watch as Molly managed to croak and wave goodbye, "I love you mommy. I'll see you soon."

_The knight agreed to what the dragon had said and rode away on the back of his hound. Where the knight went, the kingdom never knew. But the knight never cried as he left._

His sopping feet ached as he approached the towering iron gates of the graveyard. Soaked, miserable, tired. Those were the three words that came to mind as he kicked open the gate, earning a high squeal from its ancient hinges rusted with time. His heels clicked as he walked into the foggy, dimly lit streets of North London that he knew so well. The clouds were a dark grey in declining evening light. Street lamps were beginning to be lighted in a failed attempt to illuminate the gross city. It was solely the sound of his own, slightly weightier footsteps on the abandon cobble street. But this seclusion did not last long as he felt a chill when he noticed the well-dressed man on the opposite side of the street.

He knew that the man leaning against the brick wall of the shop was familiar. The man across the way was finely groomed, adorning a newly pressed funeral suit with a bright white carnation neatly tucked into the lapel. On his head was a pin striped fedora, bold enough to standout but subtle enough to appear classy. He held a wide, black umbrella over his head, managing to block the sprinkling of rain that fell onto the dirty streets of London.

Cradling his sleeping daughter in his arms, the father decided to approach the man he hadn't seen in over two years. He was greeted with a cold, business like voice that cut through the foggy evening like a knife through bread.

"You've changed." Mycroft commented, leaning up against the green and brown bricks with an artic gleam in his eyes reserved only for those who were business men and governor officials. "When I saw you last, you were an angry man. Tangled up tightly into your own boredom; much like an insect on in a spider's web. But, now… I'm not quite sure what you are. I have the feeling that it's something new, something alien to you that you can't find a name for. What would it be called?"

He adjusted his sleeping daughter in his arms to a more protective grip. He knew that Mycroft had not come alone. He never did.

"Irene had always insisted that she keep her last name." He replied to Mycroft's unanswered question.

Mycroft scoffed loudly at his response, knowing full well that his excuse for her unchanged sur-name was false. "You've gotten to be a terrible liar over the past two years. That's no matter though, I understand fully why she died with the name she did. Irene always was an independent sort, too much so for a woman in my opinion. Never the less, it is a shame she died of something as silly as pneumonia. She deserved a more justified death."

"Talk to me about the case later, Mycroft. I have things to do." Though his face did not betray him, he felt the growing urge to punch the government official in the stomach. He didn't care about the next big scandal that Mycroft was going to tell him about, though he would never admit it. He wanted to get home.

Mycroft snapped his umbrella shut, so smoothly one could've sworn the object was a part of the man. "I suppose we should have a talk about Germany. Don't you agree, Sherlock?"


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft Holmes watched the soggy, abandoned Baker Street from the deep seat of the sagging, yet oddly comfortable, recliner. Huge raindrops pattered loudly against the window, blurring the dark streets in a glassy effect. Irritation tainted his thoughts as he sipped at white chai tea, waiting for the return of his younger brother from the bedroom of his niece, who was four years old now.

"Four years old," Mycroft Holmes muttered wistfully, "Where has the time gone?"

It had been two years since Mycroft had set his well pedicured foot in the stinking Baker Street Apartment of 221b. Sherlock's flat was a poor one, to be sure. The black and white baroque wall paper was receding violently in the corners of the tall living space. The windows were etched with the spider webs of cracks and dust and sticky little fingerprints that could only be that of his niece. Papers, mismatched exotic ornaments, poorly drawn sketch in crayon and pencil, and photos tacked into walls hung and sprawled in a disorganized cacophony. The staling scent of a long since forgotten science experiment using the bones of fish and liquor lay decaying on the scratched breakfast table.

'My brother has been raising my niece like this?' Mycroft thought in disbelief as a young couple scurried down the street, a newspaper shielding their heads from the icy rain that had been fluctuating constantly throughout the night.

Mycroft Holmes, despite his lack of enthusiasm towards life and cold eyes, was quite fond of his brother's daughter. Molly was a sweet child who always greeted him with a cheerful smile. The toddler was articulate beyond her years, observant, appropriately comedic… and positively adorable. She had grown beautifully over the past two years where Mycroft had neglected to see her. In fact, if he had not known so before, Mycroft never would've guessed that Molly was the daughter of an eccentric detective. But Molly, if she was anything like her father, would probably display habits of oddity within the next year or so.

The cold man took another sip of tea, enjoying his solitude next to the blazing fire that crackled cheerily in its limestone home. The fire was easily the cheeriest thing in the room, and one of the few things that Mycroft was enjoying at the current moment. Suddenly the creak of a door and the clicking emptiness of Sherlock's light yet masculine footsteps entered into the parlor kitchen area.

Mycroft took another sip of white chai tea as he watched his brother gingerly take up his violin. The instrument was truly a work of art, even Mycroft admitted that. The violin was Italian made, a deep brown color like the bark of an oak in autumn. It fit all too easily into Sherlock's grip and crook of his graceful neck. Judging from the torn expression on Sherlock's face, Mycroft could tell that he was going to play quite the performance. White horsehair glided smoothly over the strings as the first notes of _Shenandoah _sung like a heavenly being from the instrument.

Mycroft closed his eyes slowly, allowing the music to grasp the inkling of a sour soul that was his. "I hardly think that this song is appropriate for such a time." He commented quietly, the American folk song quickening.

Sherlock never missed a beat or a note in the graceful melody as he responded, "Molly and Irene love this song."

"Irene still does?"

A flash of grief swam through the blues of Sherlock's eyes, causing Mycroft to instantly regret his words (which was odd, because the business man hardly ever did that). "…Molly still loves this song. She is Irene's daughter, after all." Sherlock responded, his voice thick with internal grief.

The pace of the folksong quickened to a rapid jig, reminding the brothers of the rolling hills of the untarnished Scottish country side. The two remembered it vividly, though they had only been once. The wind had a warm scent, and was much greener then the 1940's London was.

Mycroft only nodded in hesitant agreement. "Irene was American. Those bloody Americans are rather odd."

"Really? I didn't notice."

"Well, one of their women took after you, didn't she?" Mycroft smirked, lifting the tea mug to the lips that were too small for his angular face. The tea had long since gone cold, but Mycroft wasn't really sure what to do with his hands if he wasn't holding the mug.

Sherlock nodded soberly, concluding the song with three, harsh strokes. He glided into the black leather armchair, the seat crackling maroon in the leather seat cushion from wear and frequent use. Though he could never figure out why, Mycroft knew that the leather chair was Sherlock's spot and his spot alone. His younger brother would rather lose a finger than that chair, which seemed positively insane for anyone who wasn't Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft adjusted his seating so he faced the consulting detective, whose hands were pressed together in such a way that only the tips of his middle fingers brushed the underside of his chin.

Mycroft could already see the twisted gears in Sherlock's head begin to whiz as he pulled out the damp folders. The folders, a marigold soaked with rain, were Mycroft's tickets to success in his battle to convince his younger brother.

Mycroft slapped the folders on the scratched, black wood coffee table that stood in between the brothers. The forceful placement had sent water droplets scattering across the table, but neither man paid mind to the wet. Sherlock grabbed the first of the three folders and began to flip through its contents, carefully reading every crinkled document. The consulting detective's brow scrunched as Mycroft began his exposition more slowly than he would've liked.

"You realize that I would've never left Sweden if it hadn't been for this." Mycroft started. "But, unfortunately, someone of great importance has gone missing and I need your help to find him."

Sherlock's dark eyebrow raised in mild surprise, "Mycroft Holmes admitting he needs assistance? It must be my birthday."

"Shut up and read, Sherlock."

"Hopkins, Stanley", Sherlock read aloud the contents of the file, the navy blue ink smeared slightly by rain, "2nd lieutenant in ranks; reported missing on September 5 of 1940; Last seen walking out of the front door of the British Embassy on September 3 of 1940, in Bern, Switzerland."

Mycroft smiled, "I suppose I'll save you the trouble, brother, by explaining that there are no fingerprints, hair samples, pictures, or witnesses. His health was good, wonderful family, head of Scotland yard for almost ten years before his corruption and demotion. But there's something more, Sherlock; no don't look. I just tell you." But Sherlock was already thumbing furiously through the papers, letting no reaction slip through his face. Mycroft was unfazed. "Lieutenant Hopkins was carrying something of great value; specifically, all of the designs of the airplanes that are currently being built."

Like magic, Sherlock Holmes froze in mid page turn. Though the consulting detective was cool on the outside, his icy eyes whizzed frantically back and forth in carefully rushed thought. Mycroft knew his little brother all too well, and the gears in his sociopathic head had jammed for a moment as he closed the file.

"Well this is certainly a situation that you've weaseled your way into, brother. Unfortunately for you though, I will not be going to Bern." Sherlock said firmly, piercing the greys of his brother's eyes with his own icy blue ones.

Mycroft sighed. He had bet that Sherlock would've given this answer to his request. Luckily, he was prepared. "Sherlock, I am fully aware of your situation with Ire-"

"This isn't about Irene, Mycroft. This is about Molly."

Mycroft rose an eyebrow, surprised by his brother's straightforward answer. Usually, Sherlock would've jumped at the opportunity to finally exercise his god-like skills. Let alone, Mycroft was slightly disappointed in himself for leaving out such a key factor in this predicament. 'This was certainly a turn of events.' The government man thought in mild surprise. "How so?"

Sherlock sat back into the black leather of the chair ever so casually, but that nonchalant gesture was betrayed by the grievance in his eyes. "Irene is dead; there is nothing I can do about it. I have accepted that fact, just today as I stood over her grave, in fact… But Molly… But Molly is still alive. My daughter has a life here in England and she needs time to grieve. Not in Switzerland, but here in London. She's too young to be trekking around Switzerland especially with all those goddamn Nazi's about. I have a duty to my daughter and my wife to make sure Molly lives a life suitable for a girl her age."

"Sherlock, your country needs you."

"But my daughter needs me more, Mycroft. My wife, no, what's left of my wife, has been deceased only three days. Let Molly, your niece, grieve for her mother. If your that desperate to get someone of relative value out to Switzerland, call inspector Lestrade, he'll help you."

"Lestrade is already in Bern, Sherlock."

"Good, then you won't have need of my assistance." Sherlock rose stiffly from his chair, preparing to escort Mycroft out of the dirty flat.

But Mycroft did not flinch, for he was prepared for such an unlikely circumstance. "Your daughter won't be a problem for much longer, Sherlock."

A cold pang of dread caused the consulting detective to freeze in mid step. Sherlock felt himself register in the back of his mind that the flat was too quiet. The dripping of the kitchenette faucet, the creaking floor boards of the flat bordering his, the panging of icy raindrops of against the flimsy glass. These were normal sounds, nothing unnatural... like the sounds of crying. His stomach flipped as he sprinted into Molly's room.

The yellow light of the street lamp that glowed from the lacy curtains painted the normally cheery girl's room with an ominous yellow light. The faces of porcelain dolls that had survived the destruction of the previous world war resembled the newly dead as they perched from the top of a cluttered bookshelf. Dresses and toys of all sorts lay scattered on the cheap flooring of the room. But that didn't matter.

Looming menacingly over Molly was a man clad in black dress clothes and a white mask with a silver, hooked nose covering a set of cloudy brown eyes. Sherlock's professional gaze scanned over the intruder, stopping on a cocked and loaded revolver just inches from his daughter's left temple.

"It's your choice Sherlock," Mycroft said, leaning coolly against the door frame Molly's bedroom, "agree to come to Bern, and the life of your daughter will be saved. If you don't agree… well," Mycroft chuckled, "you can do the math."

Cold snakes of dread squirmed violently inside of his stomach, causing the consultant detective to pale noticeably. "I was under the opinion that you rather liked Molly, I never thought you'd steep this low."

"Neither did my last employee. But after his wife received a little bit of sulfuric acid to the eyes, he warmed up to my opinions." Mycroft pulled out a box of cigarettes and lit one, its exotic stench engulfing the room. "You have twenty four hours to pack for Bern. I will return to you and your daughter tomorrow at eight o clock. Pack lightly as well, you'll not need much." Mycroft inhaled deeply on the cigarette, "And in the off chance you try to escape for the countryside, Molly will be killed. Mark my words, Sherlock, I have eyes everywhere. I will know the minute you step a single foot out onto Baker street, so try anything and you will die."

Mycroft beckoned to the man who held the revolver and made to leave the room, silent and cool as an alleyway cat. But the enraged father wasn't done with his diabolical brother.

"And if I kill myself, Mycroft?" Sherlock played.

There was a brief moment of tense silence before Mycroft thoughtfully answered, ever the cold hearted business man. "Then Molly will follow you."

And with those painfully truthful threats, Mycroft Holmes left the flat at 221b Baker Street and a man who had once been his brother.


End file.
